


drop

by savedby



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savedby/pseuds/savedby
Summary: “I’m taking you to dinner,” Ovi announces, cheerfully. “You should wear something nice."Devante stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Ovi stares back, beaming.Fifteen minutes later, Devante is sitting in the passenger seat of Ovi’s SUV, wearing his second best suit.or,five times the Washington Capitals welcomed DSP to the team and one time he did it for someone else





	drop

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thermocline](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thermocline/gifts).



> Dear giftee! I love you to bits and pieces, and I hope this makes you smile.
> 
> Big thanks to Jarka for organizing this exchange and for the advice for the +1. Happy birthday!

1.

 

Devante has barely been in his newly rented apartment for half an hour when his doorbell rings. He ignores it. A couple of minutes later, there’s loud knocking on his front door. Looking through his peephole, he barely manages to withhold a scream as he gets a closeup of another person’s eye.

 

He wrenches the door open. Ovi blinks at him innocently. He has a bouquet of flowers in his arms.

 

“Hello!” he says. Devante blinks at him and then stares at the roses. “These are for you!”

 

Devante finds himself clutching an armful of red roses and Ovi uses his surprise to move past him into the apartment. He moves fast for a big man.

 

Ovi squints at the sparse apartment, frowning at Devante’s suitcase and unpacked boxes. “You could use an interior decorator around here,” he says. And because Devante suspects that Ovi’s idea of interior decorating is Gothic tapestries and gilded gold German Shepherd statues, he forces himself out of his reverie.

 

“What are you doing here?” Devante asks. He wanders over to the kitchen area. He’s barely got plates, chances are he’s not going to find a vase. In the end, he takes a high pot, pours in some water and dumps the roses into it.

 

“I’m taking you to dinner,” Ovi announces, cheerfully. “You should wear something nice.”

 

Devante stares at him, trying to figure out if he’s serious. Ovi stares back, beaming.

 

Fifteen minutes later, Devante is sitting in the passenger seat of Ovi’s SUV, wearing his second best suit.

 

“You couldn't text me before you came?” he grumbles. Ovi, who hasn’t stopped grinning since Devante opened the front door, just shrugs and turns up the volume on the Russian pop music they’re listening to.

 

The restaurant is gorgeous. It’s fancy, with high ceilings and chandeliers, but with an intimate atmosphere that manages to put Devante at ease. And somehow, each dish that he tries is better than the one before. It’s probably one of the best meals he’s ever had in his life.

 

But they come down to dessert and Devante still isn’t really sure what’s going on. The chocolate cheesecake is beautifully rich and just the right amount of sweet, and the noise he makes when he tries it is probably a little obscene.

 

He blames the sugar rush for what he says next.

 

“If you were hoping that I’d put out, this cake just convinced me,” Devante says, then immediately smothers his embarrassment with another bite of cake. He chances a look up to find Ovi looking at him thoughtfully.

 

“I’ll have to talk to Nastya,” is all he says in the end.

 

“I was joking,” Devante says, quietly. He can’t read Ovi’s expression.

 

Ovi shrugs. “If you want to, just ask,” he says, “we’re very open. In fact, whatever you need or want when you’re here, you ask me and I’ll get it for you? Okay?”

 

He looks suddenly very serious. And Devante doesn’t doubt him. Doesn’t doubt that if he said the word, Ovi would sleep with him, or help him hide a body. It’s a weird sort of feeling to have something like that in your life.

 

Like something between a mob boss and a very overbearing parent, Ovi is definitely more than just a captain.

 

“Okay,” Devante says, a little faint. Ovi beams at him and offers him a bite of his crepe cake.

 

 

*

 

2.

  


TJ skates over in pre-game warm-ups, peering up at Devante with an innocent look.

 

“Hey bro, do you want to spank me?” he asks, and Devante promptly chokes on his mouthguard.

 

“What?” he croaks out finally, as it becomes apparent that TJ didn’t accidentally mix up his kinky propositions.

 

“Spank me!” TJ repeats, grinning. “With your stick. It’s good luck. Well, you can spank me with your hand too, if you want, but I prefer no padding for that and I might have to ask Lauren for permission first.”

 

“Uh,” Devante says, then, “okay?”

 

“Great!” TJ brightens and turns to present his butt. Devante taps it carefully with the blade of his stick a few times, nowhere near being comfortable with the amount of force that Willy usually unleashes.

 

Still, TJ seems pleased enough. “Thanks,” he says, snuggling into Devante’s side for a hug and then racing off in time to flatten Willy against the boards.

 

*

 

3.

  


Devante can see the hit coming but there’s not enough time to dodge it or protect his head. He goes into the boards hard, drops to his knees for a moment to catch his breath before skating over to the bench.

 

He’s met with a chorus of concerned voices, which he waves off to focus on the doctor’s questions. He’s fine. He knows he’s fine, maybe carrying a bruised rib at most.

 

The doctor backs off. After a moment, Devante feels someone scoot into him, a warmth against his side.

 

“Don’t worry, I’ll get him for you,” Willy says quietly. Devante looks at him and the expression on his face is almost feral, visibly angry.

 

Willy doesn’t wait for his response, just vaults over the boards at Trotz’s sharp order, leaving Devante feeling off-centre and more than slightly touched.

 

Willy levels a guy with a monster hit in the first few seconds, then gets an assist on the same shift because he’s Tom Wilson and he just does shit like that now.

 

*

 

4.

  


The last thing that Devante expects to see at 6 am in the morning is a pair of tear-filled puppy dog eyes.

 

“Devs, I’m tired,” Burky says, lingering on the vowels, “and I’m hungry and thirsty, and cold.”

 

In hindsight, the sheen of tears in his eyes is just a trick of the light, but Devante still finds himself frowning in sympathy.

 

“Didn’t you eat before you left home?”

 

“Willy wasn’t around so I couldn’t get him to make me any scrambled eggs,” Burky says. Devante can hear snickering behind them on the team bus and he resolves to give Willy a stern talking to.

 

A part of him knows that Burky is a grown man, that he’s more than capable of taking care of himself if he wants to. But another, louder part has him unzipping his backpack and pulling out a Cliff bar and a bottle of water.

 

Burky drinks half the bottle and eats the whole candy bar, beaming at Devante around a mouthful of chocolate. He’s still only wearing a light shirt though, and shivering, as the bus’s air condition tries and fails to heat it up.

 

Devante considers his jacket and internally sighs. He shrugs it off, almost hitting Burky in the face with a flailing limb, and then wraps him in the jacket. Burky’s grin grows, splitting his face. He makes a pleased sound and snuggles into Devante’s side.

 

A couple of minutes later, Nicky comes walking down the aisle, doing a head count like a middle school teacher on a trip to the aquarium.

 

When he catches sight of Devante and Burky, he stops and smiles. Devante stares back, feeling at a loss. Nicky gives him an approving nod and moves on.

 

He doesn’t know how, but Devante feels like he’s managed to pass a test of some sort.

 

*

 

5.

 

Devante always gets sleepy after massages. It’s probably a little unusual because sports massages actually resemble a beating more than a massage, but someone working his calves just makes him want to nap.

 

Which is what he ends up doing in the empty physio room after everyone else has already gone. It’s not very smart - there’s always the threat of waking up with marker on your face.

 

Instead, he wakes up to someone quietly calling his name.

 

Devante opens his eyes, just in time to catch a nice view up Nicky’s nostrils.

 

“I thought that you actually had to have a game later on for it to count as a pre-game nap,” Nicky says, dryly.

 

“But massage tables are so comfortable,” Devante says, even though it’s barely more than a dressed up plank and his back is already protesting from lying on it for too long.

 

It startles a laugh out of Nicky, which is what he was hoping for. Nicky backs up, perching on another massage table, his legs dangling over the edge. There are two styrofoam cups next to him and he picks one up, hands it to Devante.

 

“Coffee,” he says, “for you.”

 

Devante takes a careful sip. It’s black and rich, with just the perfect amount of sugar. Devante tries not to drink coffee too often. He’s got no idea how Nicky knew his order.

 

“Thank you. It’s good,” Devante says. Nicky smiles, warm and pleased.

 

They don’t talk about much of consequence - training regimes, equipment, the latest international incident that Burky almost caused.

 

Nicky walks him all the way to his car. Devante drives back to his sparse new apartment and finds himself smiling distractedly at the empty coffee cup in his cup holder. His chest feels warm, and not just from the coffee.

 

*

 

+1

  


Devante runs into Nate Walker in the hallway of the Kettler building. He looks lost in thought, a suitcase and an equipment bag at his feet.

 

“Hey, back again?” Devante asks, and Nate startles, blinking at him. Obviously, he’d been deep in his thoughts.

 

“Huh? Oh, I guess so,” Nate says. Now that Devante’s gotten closer, he sees he looks pale and drawn.

 

“Like a boomerang,” Devante says, miming a throwing motion. It earns him a smile, but it’s barely got any life to it. “Hey, why don’t you sit down for a minute?”

 

He leads Nate to a bench with a gentle hand on his elbow and opens up his Gatorade bottle to give it to him. He looks like he needs it more. He takes a couple of sips and chokes.

 

“Careful,” Devante says, patting him on the back. Nate takes another sip, slowly this time. “Now, tell me what’s wrong?”

 

Nate takes a deep breath. “I just flew in from LAX,” he says, “and someone picked me up from the airport and then left me here, saying someone else would pick me up and tell me if I’m going to Hershey or if I’m staying here or what. I’ve been waiting for a while, but no one came.”

 

He looks up and Devante's heart aches for him. “I don’t know what to do,” Nate says, sounding helpless.

 

“We’ll figure it out,” Devante says, as reassuring as he can manage. “You were staying with Holts before, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Nate says, then looks around, patting his pockets, “I don’t even know where my phone is, fuck.”

 

“I’ll call him,” Devante says, pulling out his phone.

 

“Sorry, I’m such a mess,” Nate says, voice wobbling. Devante thinks about asking how long he’s been up for but he’s afraid of the answer. He knows how it feels, being carted from one team to the next without warning, and it breaks his heart all over again.

 

“It’s okay,” Devante says, as soft as he can manage.

 

“What if Holts doesn’t have room anymore?” Nate asks. “I shouldn’t bother him and Brandi, I can get a hotel or something-”

 

“I doubt he’s got anyone staying over,” Devante says. If the way the Holtbys talked about Nate was any indication, they wouldn’t be filling his room anytime soon. “And if he does, you can just stay on my couch. I’ll be okay.”

 

He puts his arm around Nate’s shoulders and Nate slumps into him, some of the tension in his body melting away. “Okay,” he says, quietly, and Devante calls Holts.

 

“Yeah?” their usually unflappable goalie sounds rough and frazzled over the phone.

 

“I’ve got a sad little wombat here, who says he’s got nowhere to go for the night,” Devante says, and Nate snorts, but doesn’t otherwise complain. Now that things are out of his hands, it looks like the adrenaline rush is leaving him exhausted.

 

“He’s with you?” Holts asks, relief blatant in his voice. “Where are you? I’ll pick him up. I’ve been trying to call him.”

 

“He’s had a rough day,” Devante says quietly and rattles off directions to their location.

 

He breaks off the call once he’s sure that Holts is on his way, then plucks the Gatorade bottle from Nate’s unresisting fingers. He brings him in closer and Nate sighs but lets himself doze on his chest, exhausted and trusting that Devante will take care of him.

 

They wait in silence, in the hallway of the Kettler complex, as Devante does what he wished so many times someone would do for him.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Now I really want a fic where Ovi is a talented if unorthodox interior decorator.


End file.
